Fairy Tale
by Be Summer Rain
Summary: She'd rather have the weight of the world, and she'd rather have him.


Fairy Tale

She dreams in black and white these days; not that she ever remembers dreaming in color, but she can recognize the subtle shift upon waking: an absence. There was blue, and now there is not. Skies are nothing more than cement blocks stacked over her head, and on foggy mornings she's not always sure if she's conscious again. If the last of the colors in her waking life haven't been washed onto the sidewalk and into the sewers. So much below the surface, she thinks, and doesn't finish her orange juice before leaving for work and doesn't put it back in the fridge, either, because somehow it doesn't really matter.

It's been seven and a half weeks since she's returned: not that she's been counting, but somehow she knows the number as easily as she knows her own age, weight, birthdate, Social Security. The numbers that sketch out her life. She returned and she still doesn't know why. It had become too much, and it's still too much, still so much more than she can bear, but she'd rather have the weight of the world, and she'd rather be with him. Nothing more, nothing less, and even in her thoughts she does not elaborate.

She smiles as she walks through the doors and goes to fill her mug with coffee, a little too strong for her taste, but these days she likes the burn. For an hour she sits at her desk and shuffles paperwork; she checks boxes and marks down names without remembering what she's finished the next minute. But she gets the job done, her pile diminishes, and that's what matters, isn't it? She shouldn't be relieved for a break from the monotony when Cragen steps out of the office and sends them out on a call; it means one more person has been broken. And yet her job depends on the decay of a city.

Elliot asks if she's all right as they step outside the front doors; the blast of cold air is especially harsh coming out of their overheated building.

"Of course," she responds, automatically, and makes a point of smiling over at him.

He studies her face once they're in the car, waiting a few moments before he turns the keys. "It's okay if you're not, you know," he says softly, and she almost wants to cry, because it's been so long. But she won't cry in front of him; it was a rookie mistake, all those years ago, and now she has to hold her own.

"I'm fine," she says, and when she has to clear her throat she disguises it as a cough. "Maybe I'm getting a little sick," she adds, relenting.

He nods, hunched over the steering wheel, and suddenly she's struck with the desire to tell him everything, but they've never been partners like that, exactly, and especially not now.

They pull into the parking lot of an elementary school, crime tape wrapped around the playground in back. She especially hates the ones with kids; they all do, but she's given up mentioning that by now.

"What've we got?" asks Elliot, ducking under the yellow tape. He's business-like, nodding, asking questions, taking the lead so as to allow her to acclimate. They walk together to the slide, streaks of blood running down the dirty metal, and a heap of a child at the bottom.

"They thought at first it was just a terrible accident," says the technician, nodding to the girl. "Then they saw the bruises on her thighs, and we thought we'd better call you in."

Elliot nods tersely, a muscle working in his jaw, and he walks around to the ladder in back as Olivia crouches down next to the girl's body.

"She can't be more than seven or eight," she says, looking up at the technician.   
"We're still working to establish identity. It might be a little while."

A bang and a clatter, nothing like what she once imagined Santa Claus to sound like, pull her attention back to Elliot; he's climbing the ladder in large steps, and stands at the top looking down.

"Wouldn't be difficult for an adult to hit her head against the slide hard enough," he says, studying the slight indentation at the top. "And then her head bleeds all the way down –" He stops abruptly and jams his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Where would the assault come in, though?" says Olivia. "It had to be somewhere else, and then – what, did he carry her up? What for?"

"What's any of this for, Olivia?" he asks, biting off her name. "None of it makes sense."

She looks up at him and doesn't soften. "I know that."

He climbs back down the ladder, standing with relief on solid ground. "You guys check the bushes?"

"Not yet."

He does not motion to Olivia, but she knows to follow him into the park surrounding the playground, and they slip on gloves and begin to search. It only takes five minutes before Elliot discovers a ripped pair of a child's underpants, the word "Sunday" printed on the waistband in pink.

In the days and weeks to come, an elementary school teacher will confess to the rape and murder. He will describe how he told her there were kittens just beyond the shed, how all she had to do was bend down and look for them. How, afterwards, she cried, and to make her stop he told her she could play on the playground for a few minutes. She'd gotten frightened sitting at the top of the slide, a few feet down but still clinging to the sides with her fingertips, and he'd come up behind her, impatient, and slammed her head down. How her blond hair fanned out as she slid, angelic; how the red seeped up beneath it. And then how he'd stood there, silent, watching her slow descent.

They know none of this now, and watch as her body is bundled into a bag, blowing on their fingers to keep them warm. It was an exhausting thing, it seemed to her then, living: requiring so much energy. They glance at each other at the same time, and neither of them bother to look away.

"It's gonna be a long day," she whispers.

"It's always a long day."

Her backpack is found a few minutes later, tucked up against the wall of the school. One blue sweater stuffed inside with a name written on the tag is all they need, and now they have to find the parents. Knock on the door, watch their faces as they see somber detectives on their doorstep – hopeful at first, she's been missing for hours, you found her?

Yes.

We found her.

Back at the station, they study the lists of suspects they've compiled while waiting for the autopsy report: relatives, teachers, neighborhood boys, any male in her life. It's a job more sickening than any forensic doctor's, Olivia thinks, as she and Elliot stand up to walk over to the lab. It's cold as they stare at the metal table, Warners gesturing to the abrasions on the throat, legs, skull, and as they turn to go, Elliot places his fingertips on her elbow, ensuring that she goes in the right direction, and compared to everything else, it's the most unholy of burns.

In the afternoon they canvas the neighborhoods around the school and her house. Knocking on doors, asking questions. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. No leads until they think to have the backpack straps tested for fingerprints and find the match. Misdemeanor, seventeen years ago. Not a record criminal enough to counteract the advantage of the teacher's prestigious education. But it isn't until next Tuesday that they find this out, and today, at nine thirty-seven at night, Cragen tells them to leave and shuts off the lights. There's nothing more to be done today.

Stars don't penetrate the thick haze of city lights, so Olivia doesn't know why she bothers looking up. When he feels rather than sees her pause beside him, he stops as well. "You wanna grab a drink?" he asks.

"I'm tired," she hedges. "I wanna go –"

"Back to your apartment? I don't think so." He stares at her; it's almost electric. "And neither do I. Come on."

Stubborn, she thinks, with only the slightest trace of fondness left, but follows him anyway. She always has.

Neither of them drink all that much; it would be easy, tonight, to give into that particular temptation. And they are not willing to give up a victory where they can find it.

She feels his eyes on her as she tips her head back to drink, burning all the way down. "What?"

"Nothing," he tells her, locking his gaze with hers. She feels the heat of it down to the soles of her feet and looks away. It's hazy in the room, indistinct, and she can see cigarette smoke curling tendrils against the yellowed wallpaper. It's suffocating and it seems natural. But Elliot's knee against hers under the table, the pressure in her blood that's making her forget her middle name: that seems natural too.

"Quiet night," he adds, relenting, and looks away. The relief of it courses through her veins, and her sigh is the only evidence of the fact that she'd been holding her breath.

"It's Wednesday," Olivia points out, but her wry tone is lost tonight.

He sets his bottle down hard on the table between them and rubs his eyes. "She was six years old."

Olivia is quiet. She studies his hands gripping the bottle, knuckles turning white, and sees her hands reaching for him, wrapping around his and holding on, until she shakes her head to clear it.

"You aren't going to say anything?"

"There isn't anything to say, Elliot," she tells him, her voice low.

"You're right," he says, rubbing his palm over her forehead, "there never is."

"Let's go," she says quietly. "This isn't helping."

"Does it ever?" he asks, but stands up as she does. They leave money on the table, and it's his hand at the small of her back on her mind when she gives the cab driver her address.

They ride in silence for a few minutes; it's not a long trip, and it's sudden when he says, "Liv, I don't wanna be alone."

She studies him, carefully.

"Not yet."

She nods, because he called her Liv and maybe that means that things could be all right. "And not tonight."

"Do you want coffee?" she asks when they get into her apartment, the door closed and locked behind them, because she needs something to do and her hands are still trembling and she isn't quite sure which factor to blame that on.

He answers with a jerk of his head, and disappears into the living room to see if there's anything on TV worth watching. There won't be, but she supposes that he'll watch it anyway.

But she's wrong; it wasn't the first time today, and it might not be the last. He's standing behind her, a presence felt more strongly than the two cups of coffee she now holds in her hands, even though those are tangible and he isn't touching her, barely breathing.

"Here," she says, holding it out to him, and just a few drops spill over the edge.

"Liv," he says, looking at her shaking hands with concern after accepting the coffee, "you sure you're all right?"

She almost laughs. He has such a knack for asking the most ridiculous questions at the most inopportune times, and she can't help but love him for it, even when she forgets that she does. "Anything on?"

"No," he sighs with disgust, "and the Yankees lost a few minutes ago."

"Oh, the agony," she responds wryly, and he follows her to the couch, sitting down within an inch of her.

She notices this, of course. She can feel the heat radiating from his leg as much as he can surely feel hers, but she casually tucks her feet underneath her, a childhood habit she's never given up, as she sips at her coffee.

"You wanna watch a movie?" she asks, once the silence has become just this side of bearable.

"All right," he agrees, and she slips one in without caring much what the title is. It's simply that they need something, anything, for filler noise, before the space between them starts speaking for itself.

He stretches his arms over his head an hour and a half later. "I'd better be going, Liv."

"You don't have to," she responds automatically; they have their litany down, it's true.

"Nah," he says, "I'm gonna try and sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

She nods and stands, ready to see him to the door. They reach for the doorknob at the same time, fingers brushing over each other, and jerk back as if they've been burned. Three seconds are an eternity until she pulls the door open decisively. He attempts to help out by reaching for the door over her head, and then everything stops.

"What?" she asks, her words coming out breathless, something almost like panic, and he drops his hand, heavy, to her shoulder.

"Thank you," he says, and it appears as though the words are fighting to get out of his mouth.

"It's nothing," she says, shrugging, and locks eyes with him.

He doesn't move his hand.

"Elliot," she says, and it sounds like weeping. "Don't."

"You can't say you don't want this," he whispers, watching as she licks her lips from nervousness.

"It doesn't matter."

"Then what the hell does?"

"It won't help, Elliot."

"Nothing else will," he says, "and you know that."

"Yeah," she says, barely audible, and allows him to slide the door closed again with his foot.

"You never thought about this?" he asks, his voice lower than she's ever heard it.

"Yeah," she says, swallowing hard. "Yeah. I've thought about it."

He rests his other hand on her hip: lightly, almost imagined. "What'd you think?"

"I spend a lot of time with you," she says, attempting to sound cavalier, but it's belied by the catch in her voice. "'Course the thought was gonna occur to me."

"Occurs to me," he says, and he has not moved closer, "about every night."

She looks away. "Elliot."

"What, Olivia?" he asks, and someone who doesn't know him might think he's angry, but it's just that his voice gets rough when it's late and he's tired and something matters. "What do we have to lose?"

"This," she says, steeling her resolve and gesturing. "Us. Partnership."

He laughs, and it's not quite cruel. "Olivia, we haven't had 'this' in a year and a half."

"Were you counting?" she asks, leaning in almost imperceptibly.

"No," he says, his voice dipping down again, "but I know."

"I," she begins, and falters.

He looks at her, a challenge.

"I've missed you." Understand, she begs him; she needs him to understand what he means, and her arms go up around his neck and he's lowering his face to meet hers and this is it, this is everything.

"I've missed you too," he whispers, in the millimeter of space they have before their lips touch, and she hears what she had meant in his voice. And now they're kissing, lightly at first, the faintest brushing of lips. He tangles one hand in her hair and tightens the other on her hip, and she steps closer and presses harder. Lips, tongues, and she wonders if she'll be bruised tomorrow, and she doesn't need oxygen because for tonight, he is all she breathes. The words are metallic and she tries not to dwell on them: for tonight.

He leans back, a few moments or several eternities later, and doesn't say a word. Merely studies her.

She's flushed, slightly out of breath, and he imagines that he must look about the same. "Well?" she asks, and there's something in her voice that he's never heard before.

"You okay with this?" he asks finally. Now he's the cautious one.

"Yeah," she says, nodding and laying one delicate hand on his chest. "But what about –"

"No," he says. "Let this be. Just for a while. Let it be right."

She acquiesces, and allows him to lead her backwards onto her couch. There must be a spotlight on it, she feels entirely exposed to the city and the universe, but her focus narrows instantly when he slips his hand just underneath the hem of her shirt: fingertips, palms, skin.

It's explosive; she knew it would be. She curls into him afterwards, sweaty and suddenly chilled, and her blankets aren't warming her. "Elliot," she begins.

"In the morning," he says, his voice muffled by a pillow. "We'll deal with it in the morning."

They walk in together; it's not so odd, after all. He's taken to picking her up from time to time, and they both have coffees in their hands. Munch pretends offense and then scrutinizes them once they walk away. The air is different. Less charged. More dangerous. They look at each other more, secretly, out of the corners of their eyes, and go out of their way to avoid any accidental touch. It's quieter, but then, it's been quiet for a couple of months now, and nobody is quite sure when it began.

It's like this for three days, and on the fourth Cragen calls them into his office. His voice does not allow room for argument, and they do not look at each other as they walk towards his office door. They know what this is about, and while Elliot may be formulating plans, apologies, explanations – she knows how he operates, she knows him better than anyone – she is silent, measuring out her steps. This is where everything will fall apart, and Olivia Benson has never believed in fairy tales.

(the end.)


End file.
